The Assorted Adventures of S Holmes & J Watson
by WiseTomato
Summary: A number of short, punch-line adventures from the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson. No long hunt, just a quick finale: one part plot, two parts action, one part planning, half a part humour, blended evenly, shaken not stirred.
1. A Short Walk Through The Tunnels

A man with a grizzled appearance paused mid-stride, cocking his head to the side slightly.. He was in a cramped corridor filled with dust and the occasional cobweb, the roof so low that he was forced to hunch over as he hurried along.

His current fixation was with the elegant, if old, handle that belonged to a dark wooden door, oak if it's scent was any indication. The reason for the pause in his rather urgent errand was the faint line of light visible at the base of the door, a tell tale sign that there was at the very least a torch of some sort on the other side, and therefore, a likely sign that it was in use.

His short pause had told him three things. One, there was a man on the other side of the door, a large man judging by the sound of his breathing as he attempted to remain silent. Two, said man was waiting for him, or at the very least some_one, _which indicated that his quarry knew he was coming.. And three, his soon-to-be-foe was most probably holding something sharp and pointy and ready to introduce it to his vulnerable flesh. Now, he couldn't have that, could he?

Step one, a sharp _kick_ to the door, causing a _collision _with his adversary's _head_, dazing him slightly. Step two, proceed through the now open door and _duck_ the first wild stab from opponents blade. _Push_ his other arm to the side and deliver a sharp _one-two_ combination to the solar-plexus, winding him. Step three, _shed_ his thick jacket and _wrap_ foe's weapon in it before _pulling_ it out of his hands, _disarming_ him. Step four, deliver stiff handed _chop_ to opponent's windpipe, cutting off the air supply and causing further breathing difficulties, further _reducing_ his combat effectiveness. Step five, a stiff palm _thrust_ to his _nose_, _breaking_ it and impairing his visibility. Sixth and final step, a vicious _knee_ to the genitals to cause him to _collapse_, completing his incapacitation and rendering him out of action for twenty at the minimum. Longest lasting injury; one broken nose. Time taken to heal: four weeks with medical attention. Ability to stick anyone with the pointy end of the sharp object in his possession: negligible. Executing plan....now.

Kick.

Collision.

Head.

Duck.

Push.

One-two.

Shed.

Wrap.

Pull.

Disarm.

Chop.

Reduce.

Thrust.

Nose.

Break.

Knee.

Collapse.

The man stepped over the groaning form of his would be assailant, taking a surprising amount of care not to trod on him, before examining his new surroundings with a sweeping glance. The hall he now stood in formed a T intersection with the one at his back and was clean, well used and much less cramped, in direct contrast to the condition of the hall he had just traversed. Glancing down, the man retrieved his jacket, brushing off several cobwebs as he did so. In the process of this, a familiar cane caught his eye. With a small frown, he retrieved it from the belt of his fallen opponent and twirled it in his hand as he briefly considered his next move.

"Oi, who're you? What're you doin' 'ere?"

The man smiled indulgently as he turned to face the new voice, a voice belonging to a thin stooped man. "Why, don't you recognise me?" When the newcomer shook his head dumbly, the intruder frowned in mock disappointment. "Well, we're going to have to do something about that," he stated with a small bow. "Sherlock Holmes, at your service my good man."

The man gaped dumbly for one moment, but no longer—as you cannot truthfully call it gaping dumbly when a particularly sturdy cane has been applied to your windpipe with considerable force. The man, Sherlock Holmes as we may now call him, proceeds over the second fallen body, heading further into the underground catacombs, and closer to his objective.

The catacombs that Mr. Holmes found himself in would have left most men lose within several minutes of taking their first turn—however, most men are woefully ignorant to their surrounds and are most definitely not blessed with perception matching that of Mr. Holmes. He strolled along the passageways as if he were following a detailed map, his brown coat breezing behind him at his pace.

Worn patches on the wall where hands have trailed, scuff marks at corners where the soles of shoes have been twisted mid-step, the scent of oil near torch brackets that were regularly refilled, these are only a few of the many indicators that tell Sherlock how to proceed. Withing twenty minutes, he has managed to negotiate a labyrinth of passages that would take a company of men days to map out.

Slowing as he approached a large pair of heavy wooden doors, Sherlock stepped quietly into the shadows offered by a Gothic archway, taking a moment to close his eyes and attune his other senses.

_In the next room_...boisterous laughter on the far side, a number of men gathered around in a rough circle. The sound of dragging feet and muffled cursing near to the other side of the doors, two men wrestling with a heavy object. Several faint words from the two men, barely heard over the din of the first group: _'Bind....Doctor....help with...party...celebrate...the boss's health...'_

Well, that answers that question. Now, to slip into the room unnoticed...

Twenty seven minutes, a bruised elbow, a shallow cut and a new hat later, Sherlock crawled into the large room through a ventilation duct that was located near to the ground and handily out of sight. He brushed himself off, still crouching in the shadows of the room, and began to observe.

The room was large and had numerous passageways leading out of it, all of them save one on the wall opposite him. His view was partially obstructed by the group—7—men he had heard earlier, all gathered around a small fire, and he quickly ducked behind one of the numerous low walls that ran throughout the edges of the room.

When their party continued without exclamation of his appearance, Sherlock prowled closer to the door from which he had been eavesdropping behind not half an hour ago. Once there, he propped up the bound figure against one of the low walls and lifted the blindfold from the man's eyes, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"Watson, me lad," Sherlock began, "I cannot believe you allowed yourself to be captured without your revolver."

Watson glared at his would be rescuer from his bound position, as Sherlock had somehow _forgotten_ to remove the gag and undo the wrist and ankle bindings. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock pulled out a small, sharp knife and cut the gag with a small flick, before stowing the blade away once more.

Watson's first words were, "I was _not _captured."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I didn't realise you did house calls nowadays."

Watson seemed to stew for a moment before replying. "I allowed myself to be taken so that I could discover their base of operations; however, I did not expect to be bound so thoroughly upon arrival." He paused for a moment, considering something. "How did you find me?" he asked.

Sherlock made no response save to smirk and reach into his coat pocket, revealing a somewhat grubby handkerchief with an extravagant golden _A _embroidered on its corner.

"Ah," Watson sighed.

Sherlock smug look turned to a frown in response, "yes, she seemed rather smug when she pointed out that we are now in her debt." He shrugged, before continuing. "Well, I have your cane, in any case."

Watson brightened immediately. "Good show. I was wondering how I was going to go about retrieving it."

Sherlock undid Watson's remaining bindings in silence, mindful of the gang members on the other side of the room. Once done, the two men peered over the low wall and began to plan their escape.

They began to crawl towards a door tucked into a shadowed corner of the room that led deeper into the labyrinth beneath the city, confident that they could make their way out quickly without being spotted. Moving slowly to avoid notice, Sherlock posed a question that he had several suppositions to, but no definite answers.

"Watson," he asked quietly. "Why the devil did they kidnap you in the first place?"

Watson sighed, pausing to rub his face. "Would you believe that their leader had a tooth ache?"

"And they kidnapped _you _of all people for this?" Sherlock replied somewhat incredulously.

"What can I say? I have a good reputation amongst the gangs of lower London."

"Some men would be chagrined to discover such a fact," Sherlock informed him amusedly.

"It's a good sight then that I'm not 'some men'." There was a pause as they scraped along, before, "did you think to inform the Inspector about any of this?"

"Of course," was Sherlock's reply, "if I owe Ms. Addler, then it is in my best interests for Lestrade to owe me a rather larger favour."

"You believe he will appreciate the accolades gained from taking down the West Wing Runners?"

"Indubitably, my dear Watson. Although, he may be rather irritated with me for a short while."

"Oh?" Watson raised his eyebrow. Sherlock had that familiar devious light in his eyes, a light that spelled only trouble for those his intellect was focused on.

It was at that particular moment that the numerous doors closest to the gathering of men were thrown roughly open, revealing a number of men in blue uniforms and bobby hats.

"Surrender, in the name of the Law!"

Sherlock and Watson each released simultaneous sighs, the only sign of their exasperation at the cry. And people called them glory seekers.

There was time for one of the gang members to cry, "gut the sarden bastards!", before the two groups rushed each other in an effort to subdue. In any other circumstance, Sherlock would be quiet content to sit merrily by and watch the men pummel each other, but this case was different. For one, they had kidnapped his friend, something that was entirely uncalled for. For the other, several of the criminals had begun to slink away from the melee and towards an open door.

"Close your eyes and block your ears," Sherlock instructed Watson as he reached into his coat for an object.

Watson, having had some amount of experience with the sort of things kept inside Sherlock's coat, immediately followed his accomplices directions, dropping to the ground for good measure.

Sherlock withdrew his hand from his coat, now holding two clay balls delicately. His spare produced a box of matches, seemingly from thin air, before deftly selecting one match and striking it one handed. With a slight scent of phosphorous in the air, he held the burning match to each of the wicks protruding from the clay balls. He proceeded to hurl the clay balls at the ruckus on the other side of the room, before closely imitating Watson on the floor.

Two seconds passed, and then there was a shockingly loud blast and a flare of bright light.

Watson got to his feet, coughing as he did so. "What the blazes was that?" he exclaimed.

"A noise maker used in fireworks—in addition to a great deal of magnesium phosphate, combined with a spark of fire and a clay casing that disintegrates upon ignition," Sherlock replied without coughing, used to the effects of his latest toy. "Did you like it?"

"I did," Watson grudgingly admitted. "And I want one. But I don't think the Inspector or his men will be greatly pleased."

"Well, I believe I did mention he would be rather irritated with me for a short while."

"Only a short while?"

Sherlock considered this. "Well, perhaps somewhat longer than a short while."

The two men made their way out of the chamber, dusting themselves off as they watched the stumbling constables round up the thieves, having been somewhat further away from the blast and separated from it by the men they were attempting to arrest.

Ignoring the dazed, but still glaring Inspector Lestrade, they made their way quickly to the surface, negotiating the passageways with ease. Within minutes, they stood blinking in the afternoon sun, Watson breathing his first breath of fresh air for several hours.

Sherlock regarded his companion, before uttering a single word.

"Pub?"

Watson swallowed, attempting to clear his parched throat.

"Gods yes."


	2. A Not So Amicable Dinner Party

"Good evening," the man stated solemnly. "I believe you will find our names in the VIP section of your guest list."

The concierge looked down on the two men before him from his elevated position on the stairs, safe behind his small lectern, and sniffed disdainfully. "Your names, please," he asked, acting as if the 'please' had been almost painful.

"Of course," the second man stated somewhat hurriedly, as if worried about what his companion would say. "I am Jatan Waman, and this is my colleague, Saakaar Himanshu. We are representatives of His Majesty's interests in India."

The concierge consulted his list with an air of impatience, before his gaze reached the afore mentioned names. He seemed to freeze, recalling his earlier dismissal of them, and gulped slowly. "Of course," he stammered. "Please proceed onwards. A waiter will be on hand to take you to your seats at the table of Lord Roland."

The two men of Indian appearance who spoke perfect English, London accent and all, smiled in response and began to move up the stairs towards the manor. As they passed the concierge, the man who had been identified as Saakaar paused and turned to face the nervous man holding the guest list.

"I'll be sure to relay the quality of your greeting," he confided in the now sweating concierge. "I'm sure Lord Roland will be pleased to hear of the sterling service enjoyed by his guests."

Jatan Waman and Saakaar Himanshu continued on their way, leaving behind a man who was now deeply regretting the manner in which he had greeted the two VIPs.

"That was evil," Jatan informed Saakaar as soon as they were out of earshot.

Saakaar raised his eyebrow in response. "Me, evil? Whatever do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. That poor man, however rude, will be sweating bullets for the rest of the evening now, only to find that you never spoke to the Lord."

"Jatan, my dear fellow. You act as if you would never expect such a thing from me."

Jatan gave an eloquent snort that spoke volumes. "That sort of thing I've come to take in my stride, but," here he gave his companion a long suffering look, "'Saakaar'? As in, 'manifestation of god'? Do you have any aspirations you need to talk about Sherlock?"

"I've no idea what you mean Watson. You chose 'nurturer', so I merely assumed I was to follow suit and choose a name that most fitted myself."

"Manifestation of god indeed..." Watson muttered to himself as they passed through the Manor doors, before slipping back into character smoothly.

The first impression that one received upon entering the estate of Lord Roland of Blakely was opulence. Sheer, overwhelming opulence. Two sweeping staircases that led to the second floor predominated the entry room, with carpets of a rich red covering the floor and extending up the stairs themselves. The walls and other wooden furnishings were of a dark, polished oak, giving an air of money and age. The sable black curtains were bordered with gold trim, adding to the impression of money, and completing the impression of noble superiority that Lord Roland wanted to convey to his guests.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, currently in disguise as rich guests from the colonies to Lord Roland's bi-monthly 'Charity' Ball, were not impressed.

"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Watson muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Because we owe Irene a favour and this is what she asked of us," Holmes replied evenly as he surveyed the room.

"Oh, so it's 'Irene' now, is it?" Watson smirked.

"Because if she decided she didn't need our help in this matter, you would not have been rescued quite so efficiently from your erstwhile kidnappers, and most importantly," and here Sherlock turned to face Watson with mischief in his eyes, "it will be oh so much fun."

Watson sighed, conceding the point. "You and your logic," he replied, shaking his head as if humoring a small child.

Without further banter, the two men approached the finely polished doors located between the supports of the two staircases on the other side of the room and pushed the doors open wide, drawing all attention in the next room to them.

The tables in the room were focused around a dance floor, with the main table raised slightly above the others. The dining tables were about half full, members of the aristocracy filling the air with inane chatter about this lord's political maneuvering or that lady's dalliances.

A waiter appeared at their side, and with a small gesture, indicated that they were to follow him. They were quickly led to the head table, receiving the occasional glance as they passed other guests. Watson and Holmes remained quiet, as their roles required them to—quiet sons of governors from India, born and bred in an English environment and on their first visit to 'the mother country'.

They had chosen to visit Lord Roland's estate to peruse the unique wares that he had for sale—elder teenage girls kidnapped from the slums of London and cleaned up in order to 'serve' the Lord's wealthy friends. At least, that was what 'Jatan' and Saakaar' were attending for.

Watson and Holmes were attending for a very different reason, but one that was much easier to understand.

Lord Roland had irritated Irene Addler. And Ms. Addler had called in a favour.

Ms. Addler's favours were not called in lightly, and were rarely pleasant.

The mere fact that she had called in a favour owed by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson themselves rather than hold it over their heads for an unspecified amount of time spoke eloquently of the lengths to which she was prepared to go in order to inflict a certain amount of...unpleasantness upon Lord Roland.

"Good evening, gentlemen," a cultured voice greeted the two of them as they reached the head table. "Allow me to welcome you to my estate." The voice belonged to a middle aged, slightly portly man. His paunch belied a figure that had been powerful in it's youth, but had succumbed to the ravages of age and rich foods. As it was, he was still an imposing figure.

"Lord Roland," Watson greeted respectfully, subtly elbowing Sherlock as he did so. Holmes inclined his head briefly, before returning his attention to the relief set in the wall behind the table.

"If you would like to take to your seats, I believe we are only waiting upon several more guests," Roland continued, dismissing 'Saakaar's' behaviour out of hand.

Watson murmured a quiet, "of course," before making his way to the remaining two seats at the table, Holmes following a moment after.

"Rather interesting artwork back there," Sherlock commented idly.

Watson raised an eyebrow, knowing that Holmes would continue without his input.

"Yes, Prometheus," Holmes stated. "An interesting theme for an English Lord." Then he chuckled, "but quite fitting when one considers the request by Ms. Addler."

Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of several more guests, leaving only a few places at the three long tables surrounding the clear dance floor.

"If you'll excuse me," Sherlock announced to Watson, "I feel a visit to the bathroom is in order before the meal begins."

"Don't be too long," Watson warned, noting the way that their sole neighbour, seated at the end of the table as they were, was listening intently to their conversation while trying to appear as if his interest was elsewhere.

Watson spent a number of minutes simply observing his surroundings, taking note of the other guests and their conversation. While everything he managed to overhear consisted of what could be expected at a typical high society gathering, something about the conversations of the eight men at the head table gave him pause. Their comments and topic were the same as their neighbours, but it was if they had no real interest in their talk, as if it were the precursor for something more. Pre-game banter, as it were.

"Miss me?" Holmes joked as he slid back into his seat. Watson hadn't even noticed his approach.

"Yes," Watson made a good attempt at a drawl under his breath. "I've been positively distraught in your absence."

Any response that might have been made by Sherlock was cut off as Lord Roland rose to his feet and rang his wine glass with a nearby fork. "As I believe all of our esteemed colleagues and guests have now arrived, I would like to say a few words before we begin tonight's meal." He cleared his throat before continuing on, "please enjoy yourselves, and remember, the main order of business tonight will commence after we have each partaken our fill, and as always, I would appreciate it if all topics concerning said business were left until that time."

Roland returned to his seat after a polite acknowledgement from the room at large, and without further command, waiters and serving men began to flood the room from several small doors that were decorated to blend in with the wall on either side of them, carrying steaming plates of meats and bread.

The meal passed in a flurry of chatter, during which Sherlock and Watson did their best to participate in. However, their minds were on other matters, namely the aforementioned 'business' to which Roland had alluded during his speech.

Despite having 'asked' the pair to attend the dinner in their current disguises, Irene Addler had given them scant other information—save for their instructions. Upon hearing what Irene wanted them to do, Sherlock would have gladly performed that task even without the debt of a favour purely for the enjoyment of orchestrating such an elaborate scheme.

After some time, the meal began to wind down, and the stream of food issuing from the kitchen began to slow. Lord Roland surveyed the room before him as the chatter died down, and attention turned to him with an expectant type of hunger.

"Before we being this evening's transactions," Roland smiled, "I would like to welcome two new members to our circle; Messrs Jatan Waman and Saakaar Himanshu."

A polite round of nodding followed.

"With these two new additions and their astute business acumen, we hope to be able to extend our activities to India, providing a more..._exotic_ selection for our clients in the future."

Watson and Sherlock exchanged a glance at this. Irene had not deigned to inform them of what exactly Roland had done to irritate her to such a degree, only saying that their performance would run much more smoothly if they were to find out for themselves.

"And so without further adieu, let me present to you, ladies and gentlemen, tonight's selection!"

Holmes and Watson affixed polite smiles to their faces as they applauded along with the rest of the room. The smiles were discarded rapidly as 'tonight's selection' was paraded into the room.

A line of young women in clean white robes were shuffling in through the doors, their left wrists manacled and chained to the person in front and behind them, were being led in by a group of three men, men whom Watson recognised with a start as belonging to the gang that had abducted him only days earlier. Several of the young women had obviously been crying, and one had a red hand print displayed across her face.

For a brief moment, a look of absolute fury played across Sherlock's face, before quickly being schooled back into a polite, slightly interested mask.

"As usual, you will be given several minutes to peruse the merchandise before bid--"

Roland paused in his announcement and looked to his side as he was interrupted by a slight cough. Sherlock rose smoothly from his seat and stepped out from behind the table, moving to what he had originally thought to be a dance floor where he could be seen by all in the room.

"Terribly sorry to interrupt you, old boy," Sherlock began with a grin. "But there is something I would like to give you before we get down to business; a gift from a mutual friend."

Roland looked intrigued, and returned to his seat before he gestured for Sherlock—or Saakaar as he believed him to be—to continue. Watson left his seat to join his friend, bringing with him the bottle of wine that Sherlock had returned with after his trip to the 'bathroom'.

"As such, I would like to present to you this gift, and invite you to join me in a toast."

As Holmes spoke, Watson uncorked the bottle with a _pop_ and poured three glasses; one for himself and Sherlock and one for Roland. After presenting Roland with his glass and Sherlock his, he waited for his partner to propose the toast.

"To enemies," Sherlock announced to the room at large. "Never turn your back on them until they're dead."

Watching the way Roland's sharp eyes followed himself and Holmes as they drank, Watson noted that he himself did not partake until his guests had done so.

"Ah," Roland stated as he swirled the rich red liquid around inside his glass, "a find drop."

Sherlock's grin became just a tad feral as he dropped the bomb. "Courtesy of Ms. Addler."

Roland began to choke violently, coughing out curse words as he did so. "Are you _mad_?" he demanded. "You drank from the bottle before I!"

"Why yes, so we did," Watson agreed.

"And that would be because the wine is not poisonous. Well, not on it's own, in any case." Sherlock finished.

There was a growing unrest in the room as the other guests watched the confrontation, yet none made any indication that they were leaving any time soon.

"Explain," Roland ordered.

"You recall that slightly bitter taste as you sampled the lamb?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes," Roland answered immediately, thinking hard. "The chef overdid the lemon seasoning. I shall have words with him for that."

"No need," Watson told him cheerfully. "I'm afraid my dear friend here took the liberty of adding a dash of seasoning while the chef was distracted."

"Not to worry" Sherlock soothed the room at large, "there is nothing poisonous about my seasoning...unless you add it to a certain ingredient in the wine here."

"But you drank the wine and ate the meat!" Roland accused, knocking his chair back as he jumped to his feet once more.

"I'm afraid I didn't quite have the time to sample the lamb tonight," Sherlock stated with an air of sadness. "Did you find yourself with the opportunity, my friend?"

"'Fraid I didn't, old boy," Watson replied just as glumly. The effect was rather ruined by the satisfied smirks threatening to break out across his face.

Roland's eyes began to rove wildly as the beginnings of panic set in, before they settled on the men guarding the young women who had begun to feel the faint stirrings of hope. "You men! Seize them!"

The guards looked at each other for a moment, debating internally as to whether or not it was worth their while to get involved.

"Ten thousand pounds to the man who wrests the location of the antidote from them! Seize them!"

That settled it. The men began to advance on Sherlock and Watson, who despite having the animosity of the room at large focused on them, were looking supremely unconcerned. Watson gave Holmes a quick nod, before producing a revolver from within his jacket.

"One chance to stop what you're doing and flee," Sherlock warned.

The men continued to advance, disregarding the warning.

Watson promptly shot out the kneecap of the largest of the three.

The room watched in shock as the man dropped to the floor with a scream, holding his shattered knee.

"You can't say I didn't give the man fair warning," Sherlock excused himself as if his friend hadn't just shot a man in the middle of a dinner party. "Now, where was I...ah yes," he turned his harsh gaze to the sweating Lord Roland. "You will shut down your operation. You will release all the young women you are currently holding captive. You will never again participate in the trafficking of human beings."

"You've already killed me," Roland sneered. "Why shouldn't I keep this going, just to spite you?"

"Why...because I happen to have the antidote to the poison that is currently coursing through your veins on its way to your liver."

"My liver?" Roland was starting to look faintly sick.

"Yes, your liver," Sherlock mused. "Rather fascinating poison actually. Each day it will attack your liver, but your body will have enough strength to fight it off—at the start, at least. Your body will then spend the rest of the day recovering from the 'attack', only to be struck down once more after 24 hours. It's rather excruciating, or so I've been told."

"Give it to me," Roland demanded, a desperate look on his face.

Watson spoke up again, "ah ah ah. Remember the terms my colleague set out?"

"You can't expect me to do all that," Roland pleaded. "All of the people in this room are a part of it. Cut off the head and a new one will rise to take it's place!"

"Not if they know what's good for them," Sherlock spoke ominously.

The room was shocked; the leader of their 'business venture' had been neutralised and was now being blackmailed by two newcomers.

"All right," Roland caved, "I'll do as you say." He cleared his throat, "now where is the antidote?"

Watson and Holmes exchanged a brief look of satisfaction before answering. "The antidote will be provided once you've done as we say," Sherlock explained with a contemptuous look.

"Until then, you can enjoy the fear of inevitability that all of your..._wares_ have experienced," Watson continued, placing his revolver back in it's holster. "We trust you are capable of returning these young women to their proper homes?"

Roland nodded, slumping forwards to rest his arms on the table before him. He could already feel a burning sensation near his gut.

Sherlock and Watson gave the room a mocking bow to the room before they turned and strode from the room, ignoring the bleeding man on the floor and leaving shocked silence in their wake. They exited the manor proper, Holmes giving the concierge a mocking wave as they passed, before making their way to the waiting carriage.

Without pause or consideration for the state they had left Lord Roland in, the two hopped up into the carriage and took their seats, where they immediately began to divest themselves of the facial hair and putty that adjusted their facial features to validate their disguises. The removal of their disguises was completed as they each used a handkerchief to remove the make up that so effectively adjusted their skin tone.

"Did it work?"

Sherlock sighed, taking a sip of the water provided. "Yes," he answered, "we pulled it off. No problems or unexpected occurrences."

There was silence for a moment longer, before Watson spoke up. "I've been dying to know. A poison like this, especially one that utilises a two part formula designed to stay in his system for a month, shouldn't be reactive to any antidote after that duration."

"My my, you _do_ know your trade, don't you Doctor Watson?" Irene came very close to purring.

"There isn't an antidote," Sherlock stated calmly.

"No, there isn't," Irene revealed. She regarded him for a moment. "After what you saw during the festivities, does that bother you?"

Watson and Holmes exchanged a single glance before Sherlock made his reply.

"No. No, I can honestly say I couldn't care less."


	3. A Fantastic Day

Sherlock snarled as he drove the dagger up through the soft underside of the man's jaw, the long hunting blade piercing the roof of his victim's mouth and continuing up into his brain. Beside him, Watson punched a large, heavy set man across the jaw with a wild left swing, somewhat ineffectually. The man stumbled for a moment before moving to reply, but the moment gave John the time he needed. Reaching into his coat, the good Doctor pulled out one of Sherlock's latest inventions and shoved it into his foe's stomach before pulling the trigger. A sickening splatter of gore was spread across the dusty street behind Watson's opponent, courtesy of the unassuming hunk of metal that looked somewhat like a revolver, if a revolver had a misshapen and deformed cousin. It was, in point of fact, a miniature blunderbuss, loaded with fifty ball bearings at a time and rather messy at close quarters, as recently demonstrated. Holmes and Watson looked tersely around the now empty street, searching for the next foe. Satisfied that they were alone, Sherlock cleaned his dagger on the shirt of his fallen enemy even as Watson cocked the barrel of the 'Scattershot' (as named by Sherlock) down, much like a shotgun, slipping a new cartridge of ball bearings in before snapping it back into place. Moving over to where his longer blade had been abandoned earlier in the fight, Sherlock pulled it out of the chest of another fallen foe, allowing the man to slump down from the wall he had been pinned to, falling to the dusty street in an untidy heap. Using the clothing of his victim once again as a tool to clean his blade of their blood, Sherlock slid his thin sword back into its sheath—his cane—with a small _click_.

Sherlock Holmes was out of sorts. Mildly irritated, he told himself. Rather pissed if he was being honest.

The day had started off gloriously. Bright blue skies, a cool breee, nary a cloud in sight and quite clearly a long, long way away from London and all of its intrigues, a suspicious Inspector and a rapidly closing down human trafficking ring in particular.

"The Caribbean" she said. "Someplace quiet, a nice neutral port with plenty of teahouses and opium dens" she claimed. "Just until things calm down in London," she assured.

**Bollocks.**

The (they being himself and Watson) had been at the sleepy Macau Port for a mere three days before trouble of some sort had caught up with them. Sherlock grumbled internally. He was never taking vacation advice from Ms Irene Addler again, regardless of if she payed for travel and accommodation or not.

"Thoughts?" Watson's statement intruded on Sherlock's musings.

Sherlock took a moment to examine their would be attackers with a critical eye. Faded, roughly patched clothing. Slightly rusted weapons. A touch of discolouration in the extremities of two, a sure symptom of scurvy.

"Corsairs," Holmes answered shortly. "Though for the life of me I cannot imagine why they would be here."

"Perhaps they heard of your vacation plans," Watson replied dryly, correctly guessing his friend's line of thought.

"I'm sure," Sherlock panned in an equally dry voice, drawing an amused grin to Watson's face, despite the man's best effort to conceal it.

Their banter was cut short by a rather large explosion from further inland, shaking the few glass windows on the dusty street as a gust of wind kicked up a small whirl of dirt.

"That came from the direction of the Freeman's Garrison," Watson stated.

Sherlock grunted.

"It sounded like the armoury's gunpowder stock was fired," Watson continued on, unaffected by his companion's apathy.

Sherlock grunted again.

"The Garrison is on the opposite side of town to the Mayor's Manor," John pointed out.

Sherlock grunted yet again.

"I'll bet your pipe to my jacket that the explosion was a diversion," he offered.

Sherlock was silent, but he did glance rather longingly at the jacket in question. It had been his until an unfortunate night of cards, and was exquisitely comfortable. Reluctantly, Holmes shook his head.

"There will be a reward for thwarting whatever these ruffians have planned," Watson proposed, prodding one of the fallen ruffians in question with his foot. "Probably a favoured status within the town too," he continued. "Access to the best accommodation, wine, women....perhaps even your jacket back," he threw out as a last ditch effort.

"Well," Sherlock stated after a long pause and great internal debate, "if we absolutely must, I suppose we could take the time to have a look," he finished with great reluctance.

Watson grinned victoriously. It wasn't often he could persuade Sherlock to do anything he didn't wish to.

"But I get the jacket after we're done."

Watson's grin quickly tuned to a frown when he was reminded of the high price of his victory. He had a creeping suspicion that he had been played...

**X x X**

"So..." Watson began airily. "Whatever happened to rescuing the distressed Mayor from the evil ruffians?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, before closing it as he stepped over a still body. The two of them had set out from the dusty street they had been ambushed, intent on rescuing the Mayor—and proceeded immediately in the wrong direction, heading instead for the docks.

"There are guards at his Manor, yes?" The detective queried.

Watson slowly nodded his assent as they strode along.

"And tall fences? And locked doors? And big, nasty, savage, rabid dogs?" Sherlock prompted as Watson continued to nod his assent. "Do you think any potential kidnappers will just knock on the front door and hope an uninformed and unsuspecting servant will open the door for them?"

"Hmmm..." Watson mused. "I guess such a plan would have to be truly stupid. I think I see where you're going."

"Exactly!" Holmes snapped his fingers. "While the war-band is sacking the Manor, we shall proceed aboard the ship, take the Captain hostage and demand he take his leave."

"Ah," Watson stated. He paused slightly before continuing, "and if we are both utterly incorrect in our suspicions?"

Sherlock paused mid stride. "Well, I suppose we'll make it up as we go along."

Watson sighed and shook his head as they resumed their journey to the docks. "You absolutely fill me with confidence, old boy."

**X x X**

"You're an idiot," Watson stated evenly. "An absolute, utter, complete fool."

Sherlock frowned slightly as he replied, "don't you think you're being just a tad harsh there?"

"No," Watson answered. "I'm quite sure I was spot-on in my declaration."

At this point, some small amount of background is in order. The two men, upon reaching the docks, had proceeded towards the raiders' ship unchallenged. Unfortunately, Sherlock's cunning plan had hinged upon their ability to actually _board_ the ship and they found themselves thwarted in this regard by means of a raised gang plank.

Then had come Sherlock's brilliant idea to climb the mast of a nearby ship and use ropes to swing aboard their original target. A sound plan in and of itself, yet this was where their problems arose.

In Holmes defence, they had passed by a burning building decorated with the distinctive trappings of an opium den, whereupon had had the misfortune to breathe in copious amounts of the fumes issuing from said building.

You can't honestly fault him. Really.

The ascent of a nearby merchantman's mast had gone well, all things considered. It was the swing itself that had triggered the beginning of their troubles.

You see, for all of his vaunted intelligence, logic skills and deductive reasoning, Sherlock Holmes could be an exceedingly absent-minded man. Even more so on the _rare _occasions he became high on opium.

So, you can't really blame him when he forgot to relinquish his grip on the rope at the peak of his swing.

Nor can you blame him for letting go whilst above the rigging of the raiding ship and becoming entangled in said rigging, nor can you really blame Watson for joining Sherlock in his entanglement during his attempt to aid him—although you could blame Watson for shouting, "let go you stoned fool!", during his companion's swing, thus causing Sherlock to release his hold on the rope at such an inopportune moment in the first place.

"This is all your fault," Sherlock spoke suddenly, interrupting Watson's tirade.

Watson gaped at Holmes wordlessly from his position suspended between the fore- and mainmast. "My fault? MY fault? You were the one with the bright idea to rob the ship while the pirates were raiding!"

Sherlock scowled thunderously, somehow managing to look intimidating even while hanging upside down by his feet, swinging in the breeze. "Perhaps, but you were the one who decided we should leave the opium den when we ran out of money!"

"I didn't think you'd get it in your head to help ourselves to the pirates 'chest of treasure'!"

"I didn't hear you complaining."

"You refused to tell me what you were planning!"

"Oh, you would've come with me regardless."

"_Ahem_."

Sherlock and John's argument was cut off by a number of new arrivals. Nigh on two score rough looking men now stood crowding around on the deck below them, a number of flintlock pistols and muskets pointed up at them. In the middle of the group stood two young women, held firmly by the arms by a tall, spindly man wearing an oversized tri-point hat and a fancy vest. The tall man coughed again, indicating himself as the leader of the mob.

"Oh, hello," Sherlock blinked as he offered a greeting, swinging back and forth in the wind.

"'Oh hello' he says," Watson muttered quite clearly.

Sherlock fixed him with a stare. "Well, it's only polite," he said pointedly.

Ignoring the reddening visage of the pirate Captain, Watson snapped back his reply. "We were going to rob his ship! I hardly think good manners will positively affect our situation now!"

"The two of you, be sil--" The Captain interrupted, only to be interrupted himself.

"Well, they certainly won't with the way you are currently behaving. I truly thought you knew better."

Watson stopped for a moment, before scowling mightily. He began to struggle against the ropes he was entangled with as he gave a shout, "know better? I know better?!?!" he yelled. "I know better that my fist is denser than your nose, and I'll bloody well prove it to you!"

It was at this point that the pirate Captain lost what little remained of his patience. "Cut the fools down!" he ordered curtly.

Several men perched on the rigging, previously enjoying the show, swung up with their swords to cut the two strange men down. Sherlock, swinging in the open as he was, became the target of numerous thrown, sharp, pointy object until a lucky dagger throw severed the rope wrapped about his feet.

With a loud _thump_, the two men fell to the deck, while the Captain gave them an irritated glare that was mixed with relief at the knowledge their squabbling was over.

It was not to be.

"Introduce your fist to my nose, will you?" Sherlock shouted, bouncing back to his feet. "You forget who signs your pay checks!"

"Signs checks to an empty account!" Watson taunted.

"You dare--!" Sherlock began indignantly.

The Captain snapped. Striding forward, he made to grab the two insane thieves as he cried, "enough!"

With a sharp whistle of wind, two blades flew from their inconspicuous sheaths to halt poised at the Captain's throat.

"Took you long enough, old boy," Holmes sighed irritably.

"Indeed," Watson agreed. "For a moment there, I thought we would have to come to blows to elicit some sort of reaction."

As the shock of the sudden role reversal wore off, the Captain made a quick gesture behind his back. A lumbering crewman sprang forward with speed that belied his size, intent on separating the two 'captives' from his Captain.

The Captain tensed, waiting for the opportunity that would arise when one of the two deranged men took their blade away from his throat to deal with his unwitting Second Mate. He smiled, the emotion not quite reaching his eyes.

With a detached expression, Watson reached into his coat and pulled out what appeared to be a snub nosed revolver of some sort. Barely sparing the moving man a glance, John calmly aimed and squeezed the trigger. A dull blast echoed across the still deck.

The entire sequence of evens, from hand gesture to report of the pistol, had taken less that three seconds.

The Captain began to sweat nervously as two blade tips began to press more insistently into his throat, while doing his best to ignore the cooling corpse on the deck, the bloody stump that was once its head in particular.

"Now," Sherlock began with a pleasant smile as Watson stowed the devastating pistol back in his coat, "I believe we were about to negotiate safe passage for ourselves and the two lovely ladies you escorted aboard earlier."

**X x X**

Sherlock allowed himself a satisfied smile as he looked out the clear glass window to examine the evening sky. The day, starting on a fantastic note yet quickly going downhill, had returned to its previous state. The opium he had _accidentally_ inhaled earlier had worn off, he was being treated to a fantastic meal of roast lamb at the Manor, Watson was engaged in an intellectual conversation debating the merits of some sort of plant with the resident surgeon, and the grateful daughters of the Mayor that they had gallantly rescued from the clutches of the dastardly pirates were being _most_ attentive to his needs. Yes, the day had finished on a rather fantastic note.

Oh, _that_ was a very direct look. And they're excusing themselves from the table. You know, I think they might be twins. Somehow, fantastic no longer feels like a strong enough adjective.


End file.
